Tell Me You Love Me
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: Set sometime during the crash; Lexie is near dying, trapped beneath part of the plane. "And you'll kiss me and tell me you love me, even after I've gone?" Mark/Lexie; One-shot.


_Title: Tell Me You Love Me_

_Author's Note: I posted this on tumblr last night; I decided to post it on here as well, with a couple revisions. This fic is set sometime during the crash featured in next week's episode. Unfortunately, it looks like Lexie will be the one dying. (I will refrain from commenting on this plot development in this A/N because my words cannot accurately express what I'm feeling right now. If you read the story, I'm sure you'll know how I feel.) As we've seen in the promos, she's trapped beneath part of the plane; and in this fic, she is quite close to dying. Mark is with her, of course. One-shot._

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It won't budge. It won't move. He tried and Yang and Meredith, and all three at once… She's stuck. Her legs, her arm, nearly her whole body… He forces himself not to calculate how long it will take for her to bleed out here in the dirt, on the ground, in the middle of nowhere.

"It's okay," she whispers optimistically, forcing what she hopes is a smile onto her mouth. "It'll be okay, Mark. You guys will get home—"

He shakes his head, crouching over her again. "No," he whispers. "No, don't say that."

"Mark…" She closes her eyes momentarily. "I'm stuck, okay? Everyone's tried. It's time to go to the next person. Go look for Derek, or help Cristina with Arizona—"

"_No_."

"Mark…" She smiles again, but what should been a happy gesture is infested with sorrow and heartbreak… and death. All at once, he realizes. _She knows she's going to die. She's telling me to leave her here. To die. _And he can't take it.

"Lexie," he manages to say, moving closer, bending over her in the dirt, "Lexie, you can't give up, okay? You'll be fine. We'll get you out of here, we'll—"

"Mark," she interrupts. Her soft voice tells him it isn't worth it—neither his actions nor his words are helping. So he takes a quick breath and plays the only card he has left.

"I love you," he confesses, knowing that he's more in danger of running out of time than options. "Please. _Please_," he croaks, "you—you can't—"_You can't die._

"You love me?" She cries, tears spilling out of her eyes at the words she's waited months to hear. "Oh, Mark…"

"Of course I love you. God," he whispers, moving as close as possible. "Jesus, Lex, of course I love you. Of course."

Her chin trembles. "But you never said…" She sniffs. "After, after I—"

"I know," he chokes out. "I know, and I'm so sorry."

She sucks in a breath, and when she tries to exhale, all that comes out is a tortured sob. Tears stream down her face in an endless current. "If you would've told me…" She shakes her head; the tears shake off her face like water droplets off of a wet dog. "We—We could've had one last day together, Mark."

"_Lexi_e." His mouth strangles her name, apparently unable to pronounce words as it once was.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" She whispers. "Why did you wait until now?"

"I don't know," he replies, unable to hold back the tears now. They spring from his eyes and fall down his cheeks, but he doesn't spare a second to think about anything but her. "I don't know, Lex. I—I'm so sorry, baby, I…"

"Baby?" She interrupts in awe, the smallest smile curving up her lips at the endearment. "Baby?" She says again, her eyes widening with love as the creases in her forehead show her heartbreak.

Yet he can't help but smile back. His tears drip into the muddy dirt, ignored. He reaches out, caressing her cheek as gently as he can. "Yeah," he manages hoarsely, ignoring the bright red blood that smears on his fingers and palm. "Yeah, Little Grey."

"Oh, Mark…" Lexie twists her head to the side, pushing deeper into his touch, as her face contorts in sorrow at the old nickname. "Mark, you…"

"I love you so much," he confesses, unable to hold it in anymore. His other hand moves to cup her opposite cheek, and he holds her still between his fingers. His hands are freezing and numb, and he barely feels the wetness of her tears falling over them. "I've loved you for years, Lexie. _Years._ You're the love of my life, sweetheart."

She feels herself literally choke on her own breath at his tender words. "Mark—"

"And I have no idea what I'm going to do without you."

"You'll be okay," she manages to whisper. She opens her mouth, forcing herself to breathe in and out and not hold the tears in. They'll suffocate her if she lets them, and she knows that death will be much quicker than the crushing she's enduring from the thousand-pound metal sheet pinning her body to the ground. "You'll go home," she manages to say, "you'll go back to Seattle, you'll see your daughter—"

"Stop it." The words rip out of him as a harsh, almost violent, command. He doesn't once think about taking it back.

She tilts her head to the side, unable to look away as those familiar blue eyes fill with tears again. "Mark…"

"Stop it," he repeats, his voice a low, fierce growl; the best he can manage now. "Don't tell me things are going to be okay. Don't tell me to go home or back to Sofia—"

"You have to, Mark." Her voice is solid and matter-of-fact. _You have to live. You have to survive._

He shakes his head refuting all her spoken and unspoken words. And then he shakes it again. Once, twice, three times… Before hanging his head and burying his forehead in the dirt. His sobs are deafening in the clearing created by the crash, and she can do nothing to help him. She can't even touch him, only listen as grief and desperation tear their way through his body, shredding his heart and voice box and throat on the way out. There must be other sounds besides his anguish, she knows, but he's all she can hear. He's consuming her. _It's like you're in me._

"Mark," she cries, wishing her arm was free to reach out to him, to touch him, to offer him some final bit of comfort. "Mark, please."

He shakes his head fiercely, and for a second, she's terrified he's going to pull away and leave her here. But he doesn't. He stays. She watches him push his head deeper into the blood-soiled dirt, watches his hands thread through his own hair—violently, like he wants to rip the hair from its roots. Like he wants to tear himself apart. Like he thinks that's the answer.

"You aren't going to die," she whispers when tears stop momentarily. Her words are both a promise and a command. _You can't die._ She takes his silence and slow breathing as a cue to continue. "You aren't going to die, Mark. You're going to go home, and have a great life—"

His head snaps up at this, so suddenly that Lexie would jump back if she could move more than three inches. "Do you think I give a _fuck _about my life?" Somehow hearing him whisper the words instead of shouting them made everything even worse, even scarier. She feels herself start to tremble all over, finally realizing how close they must be to the end.

"Mark…" She whispers.

"Do you think I care if I'm going home? Do you think I care—" He breaks off, looking away. Barely a second later, his eyes are on hers again, filled with tears. "Why should I care about _anything _if you're going to be taken from me, Lex? Why should I care what happens after—after you're gone? How does the future benefit me if you're not there too?"

She stares at him, searching for an answer they both know isn't there. No one has the upper hand in this situation; they're both uneducated and underprepared and completely overcome by the greater and crueler forces of nature, the fundamental laws of life and death. Eventually, she gives him a one-shouldered shrug, sniffing loudly to hold off the tears a little longer. "I don't know," she cries. "I—I don't know what to tell you, I don't know anything, I just want you to—"

Her voice is cut off as he suddenly surges forward, covering her lips with his. She lets out a weak cry at the all-too-welcome feeling, wishing desperately that she could pull him closer. He backs off the second he hears that noise escape her. He almost jumps away, not wanting to do any more damage.

"No," she croaks out, trying to make the word sound forceful and demanding. Her voice—cracked and broken as it is—is all she has left. Her legs are trapped, and she can't move her arms. All she has left to communicate are her mouth and lips. "No," she repeats hoarsely, "come back."

Reluctantly, he follows her order. "Did… Did I hurt you?" He whispers. His eyes immediately scan her for more injuries, complications…

"No," she replies, "I'm fine." She waits until his eyes return to hers. "Will you kiss me again?" She wonders softly, almost shy at needing to ask such a thing. She misses the days when she could simply lean over and press her lips to his.

He gives her the saddest of smiles, as if he knew what she was thinking. "If you want me to."

Her returning gesture is just as defeated. "I always want you to kiss me, Mark."

He takes a breath, reaching out again to cradle her bloodied and bruised face delicately in his muddied hands. He tries to keep his voice steady. "I love you so much," he whispers to her. "I've loved you for years."

She closes her eyes, weakly spreading her lips a bit wider. "I love you back," she replies. "For years and years." She blinks slowly, and when she opens her eyes next, he can tell it's a struggle for her to do so. He feels more of his heart harden and wither at the realization. "I'll love you forever," she whispers softly, just before tipping her chin to beckon him closer.

His lips settle atop hers, gently and fully, and she lets her eyes fall closed again. She lets her mind wander, she lets her body drift. If she focuses hard enough on what isn't real, she can almost feel herself wrap her arms around him, pull him close… She can feel his body roll over to cover hers, feel him press his bare, heated skin against hers…

She kisses him for as long as she can.

But eventually, even he sees that she's grown tired. Her eyes can barely stay open even when completely focused on him. But she tries, and it breaks his heart, because he knows she's doing it only for his benefit.

When the sun starts to set, he wonders quietly if she's tired. She nods—the shallowest dip of her head—and he moves closer, sliding across the dirt and mud and blood, just to be next to her. He settles in beside her, letting his body line up with hers—as much as possible, that is, with her legs and arm trapped inside the plane. But he doesn't look at that, and neither does she. Her imprisonment is old news; it interests neither of them anymore.

She turns her head as he slips down next to her, smiling faintly when their noses line up. A moment later, his arms warp around her shoulder and back, and because he can't pull her close for fear of furthering her injuries, he moves up against her. Her sluggish brain finally realizes what's happening when he rests her head delicately on his chest, with his arms wrapped tight around her torso.

"You're going to hold me while I die," she manages to whisper. Her voice isn't broken, scared, or weak… It isn't terrified or lovesick. She's simply stating a fact.

"Yes." The word comes out of his mouth as if from someone else's: detached, emotionless… But gentle. _Yes. _She can hear him, _her Mark_, even behind the mask he tries to wear.

"Okay." She exhales a quiet breath, listening to the faint sounds of the forest and much more prominent sounds of the burning, flaming rubble that used to be the plane. The sounds grow fainter and fainter as the night draws on, and though she knows it's cold—it must be freezing by now—she can't find it in herself to shiver. She can barely breathe anymore, but she forces herself to speak, because she knows this will be her last chance. There's no rescue in her future, even if there is for the others, and there are things he needs to know.

"You'll…" She clears her throat weakly. She doesn't do it to get his attention; she already knows she has it. She almost smiles at the thought. _Mark Sloan's undivided attention_, she thinks, _one of the perks of the slowly dying_. "You'll take me home, won't you? My—My body?" She feels water escape her eyes but she doesn't know why it's happening. She can hear him making sniffing noises beside her, but she doesn't know how to translate those feeble sounds into English, so she continues undeterred. "I want to be next to my mother, Mark. You tell my Dad that. Tell him to put me next to Mom. Tell him that's what I want."

Mark doesn't know how, but he forces the words out. "I'll tell him."

"And you…" Her teeth start to chatter, making it hard to speak. "Y—You remind him who you are. You t—tell him what you meant to me, so he kn—knows."

"Okay."

"And…" She draws a cold breath, summoning what little strength she has left to tilt her head so her eyes can meet his. She can barely see those familiar blue-grey irises among their red rims and crystal-clear tears. "And you'll kiss me and tell me you love me, even after I've gone?"

He nods. "Yes," he whispers, his voice cracking on the word. "Yes, I'll tell you. I'll kiss you. I'll take you home and I'll speak to Thatcher. I'll do it all, I promise_._"

"I knew I could count on you." She smiles faintly at her own words, but soon realizes, in some part of her battered brain that he's trying to put on a brave face for her. So she lets the smile disappear off her face, erases all the jokes from her mind, and tries not to make things any harder. "Can we practice now?" She whispers a second later, hoping to relieve some of his pain the only way she knows how. "Just so you're ready when the time comes?"

He blinks down at her, and a million responses fight their way to the tip of his tongue. _I'll never be ready. You can't go. Don't leave me. Please. Just one more night. Stay here, only for a few hours more. Lexie, _please, _for me…_

But he ignores them all. Instead, he bends down, touches his lips ever so gently to hers, and whispers against her warm, familiar mouth, "I love you, Alexandra Grey."

He doesn't pull back afterwards, and he doesn't open his eyes. He knows the moment he does, she'll be dying again, or dead, and that is all so much worse than the happy, smiling, _lively _woman he sees when his eyes are closed off from reality. And so he buries his head in her neck, pressing his lips against the pale, smooth column of her throat. All he can do is kiss her again and whisper those words, too little and too late, as he feels her slip further and further away.

It takes him a long time—minutes, hours, days?—to realize. But when his lips seek out her skin some time later, it's grown cold and he knows. She's chilled like ice—not from the wind or the rain or the exposure—and he _knows._ He presses his mouth against her pulse point, desperate to feel that warm, rhythmic beat that emanates from beneath her porcelain skin. But there's nothing. No sound, no beat, no warmth.

Amid the shouts and screams of the eager rescuers and newly rescued, Mark Sloan's world falls silent.

_I love you, Alexandra Grey._

He mouths the words, unable to speak them when he knows she isn't around to hear his voice anymore.

She's dead and gone.

And so is he.

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_Author's Note: This was a one-shot and I liked where it ended, so I don't think I'll be continuing it. (Well, I didn't like it, but I was satisfied.) That being said, though, I will probably be posting more stories about next week's episode, if you're looking for that kind of thing. I'll also try to update YCATOF this weekend; sorry for the delay._

_And I know it was depressing, but **please hit that beautiful (and new!) blue button below and leave me a review** with your thoughts. Maybe the next one will be happy…_


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